


winter embers, burning bright

by elmshore



Category: Shepherds of Haven - Lena Nguyen
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, because blade is a dummy, well a tiny bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28182582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmshore/pseuds/elmshore
Summary: He is drawn by an echo of laughter, and of course, it is her.Or, Blade wrestles with his feelings for a certain Shepherd, and loses.
Relationships: Blade Bronwyn/MC, Blade Bronwyn/Main Character, Main Character/Blade Bronwyn
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	winter embers, burning bright

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Wintersun contest, happening over on tumblr and on discord! Also, my first time writing Blade and fic for this series so, apologizes for any bumps along the way!

He is drawn by an echo of laughter.

Bright, a flash of warmth cutting through the chill which hangs in the air. Lilting and melodic and so very inviting, a lure, it calls to him — sinks its hooks into him and tugs, until he has no choice, driven now to find the source.

Leads him onward, to training grounds that lie covered in a layer of white. Empty, except not.

And of course, it is her. A part of him knew, her voice a song that refuses to leave his mind; haunts his thoughts, waking or dreaming, and yet he… what, exactly? Hoped it might be someone else, _anyone_ else?

Foolish, ridiculous. Traits he seems to embody more and more, where she is concerned.

Amarantha twirls in the desolate yard, dancing among a gentle flurry of snow, and she is beautiful, a burst of vibrant color amidst the colorless. Head tilted back and facing skyway, arms outstretched, red hair stark against the white, eye-catching. She has traded her uniform for a simple gown of spun silk, rose gold, shimmering, and were she anyone else, he might scoff at the impracticality of it.

However, she is _not_ anyone else, and so as always, he is captivated by the sight of her, frozen in place.

Blade is no fool — much as he might feel like one, around her — and green as he may be in matters of the heart, even he can recognize these emotions, these reactions, for what they are. Has named them, in the quiet of his room, speaks them to the shadows alone. 

Knows that if he gives them time, as with all things, they will simply fade and leave him be. 

He is her Commander, after all, and besides, what could he possibly offer her?

(Certainly not the easy laughter she shares with the _other_ Mage. Heads bowed together so often, hands interlaced, sharing smiles and secrets, and if it sends a lance through his heart to see it, then no one need ever know.)

This is merely a fleeting desire, one that will pass if he only — 

“Commander?”

She is looking at him now, breath creating little opaque clouds, and those eyes, shining even now, beacons threatening to pull him in, offer no respite, no escape. Rosy lips form a perfect ‘o’ at the sight of him, confusion streaking across her fine features, but then it is gone and she is smiling and Blade has a sneaking suspicion that he is already lost in this battle.

“What are you doing?” His own voice sounds odd, foreign, here but not. Strained, forcing its way past the lump forming in his throat.

When her response is another laugh, effervescent and dazzling, Blade frowns. Tries to guess what might have been humorous about his question, but comes up blank. Dares to ask, “Is something amusing?”

A hand rises to cover her mouth, but even so, a giggle slips past her fingers. Rings in the air between them, fluttering, a ray of light. “I apologize, I wasn’t laughing at you,” she assures, and when she offers him that same beaming grin, a rival to the sun itself, he feels his chest constrict, tendrils of longing coiling about his heart.

Foolish, ridiculous. _Stop it_ , hisses the voice in his head, a harsh command he knows will go unheeded.

She continues, hand falling to run along the length of her thick braid — even from this distance, he can spot the flowers woven into the fiery locks, tiny white blossoms he recognizes but cannot place — and he is shamefully mesmerized by the motion, by her nimble fingers tracing the curve of the petals. “It’s only, today is Wintersun, and I suppose I let my joy get away from me.”

 _You are nothing but joy_ , he thinks and quickly tears it apart. Rips it into tiny pieces and scatters it to the winter winds, far away, where it can no longer be a distraction. 

Moves, instead. One foot in front of the other, precise, familiar. Down the steps and across the yard, broad strides, until the distance between them is minimal, close enough now to lose himself in her. The scent of lilac and bergamot — vibrant as spring, cloyingly sweet, a temptation all its own — envelops him, drapes itself over his senses, and clings tight. 

Here, inches from her, Blade spies the freckles strewn across her cheeks; clusters of stars and constellations. Spies a bit of snow, just there, and without thinking, reaches for her, an instinct he cannot resist. Traces his thumb along the curve until he brushes it aside and marvels, unwillingly, at the softness of her, silk under calloused skin.

Realizes too late what he is doing, alarm bells ringing in his head. Pulls away quickly, as if burned, and tucks his arm tightly against his side, fist clenched, fingers tingling still from the touch. A flush spills over her features and she is stained a rosy pink, but it is merely the cold.

Silence settles over them, a calm stillness that sets his heart to racing, and when she speaks, he is annoyed at the relief which courses through him. “Are you excited for Wintersun, Commander?”

“I’ve never given the holiday much notice,” he admits, chews the inside of his cheek warily, and adds, “is it a favorite of yours, then?”

For one heartwrenching moment, her eyes dim — a shade cast over the light, clouds obscuring the sun — but he blinks and it is gone, a brief flicker and nothing more. “Yes, I’ve always loved it, but,” and here she goes quiet, studies him, and Blade wishes, absurdly, that he could read her mind. Is curious beyond reason what she thinks of him, what she sees when she looks at him. “This is the first year in quite a while, that I have truly looked forward to it.”

“And why is that?”

“Because now I can enjoy it with the people I care about it.”

The words fill him with a warmth he cannot ignore. Settle deep in his chest and put down roots, begin to blossom; flowering now into something tender, delicate. Amarantha stares up at him with those too-bright eyes and a smile so kind, so gentle it leaves him aching. 

_I care about you_. Unspoken, but not unheard. Simple words perhaps, but the weight they carry is immense, staggering. 

His heart beats a frenzied rhythm in his chest, a war drum howling against his ribs, and yet it is drowned out by the din of blood rushing in his ears, mind scrambling to make sense of her meaning, his own traitorous thoughts. Cannot focus on anything but the way she regards him so openly, no hint of trepidation or fear, only respect.

Admiration, perhaps, and even… _no_. He stops the thought dead, allows it to progress no further; he is a man who deals in sureties, after all, not fantasies.

But he cannot stop his lips from moving, nor can he halt the words that rise in his throat, unbidden, tumbling forth in a rumbling murmur. “Perhaps there is something to be said for this holiday, then, if it brings you such delight.”

Regret floods over him, a rising swell, and his nerves are aflame, the heat of shame engulfing him. Blade wants nothing more than to pluck the words from the air and choke them back down, but such a thing is impossible, of course. And besides, she is smiling wider now, aglow, and he is, once more, struck by the radiance of her.

“I agree, Commander,” and her tone is teasing, rich as honey, and Blade is suddenly far too aware of himself, of this situation.

Foolish, _ridiculous_.

She shivers — a slight action, barely there, but his sight is keen and he wastes no time, eager for the distraction. Removes his cloak and in one fluid motion, wraps it around her smaller frame with care. Hears her protest weakly, but pays the pleas little mind; tucks it in tight, shielding her from the cold that means nothing to him. Amarantha lifts her hands, to help or stop he cannot be sure, the only certainty is that when her fingers brush against his own, the world slows. 

Comes to a halt, frozen, and when her gaze meets his, Blade feels his heart stutter-stall, breath catching. He lingers, drawn to the flame that seems to radiate from within her, and there is a warning here, a risk, but he cannot begin to care.

They are so close, inches apart, and it would be so easy to simply give in, to allow himself a moment of rashness. Bridge the distance and — 

“Blade?”

His name has no right to be so alluring, spoken by her voice. A blunt, rigid sound made into something precious. It draws him out of the daze and he all but flings himself away from her, from her warmth, from the scent of spring. Breathes in, ragged, and allows the sting of winter to fill his lungs.

“I have reports to attend to,” is all he manages, each word passing through his teeth as if they were jagged glass. Blade waits for no reply, cannot bear to hear one, and turns, snow crunching under his boots. Marches away, his steps decisive, stern. Resists the urge to look back, to see her again, and keeps his eyes ahead, steady, focused.

Amarantha does not follow and he is up the stairs, nearly round the corner before the temptation is too much. Everything in him pleads against it, but even so, he pauses and risks a glance over his shoulder. 

And she is still there, an ember burning amidst the snow.

She holds the cloak tight around her, fingers bunched into the sable fabric and that smile is back, different now, but no less shining. An emotion he dares not name stares back at him, undeniable, achingly soft. It is too much, drags him under the waves and water floods his lungs, salt stinging the back of his throat.

Her lips move, and she is too far away to hear, but it hardly matters, he knows what she says. 

Rounds the corner and she is gone from sight, but most certainly not mind; no, never from his mind. The feel of her skin against his own shall plague him endlessly, he knows — still, his fingertips remember the sensation, burning from the touch. And her words, spoken to the wind, echo in his head.

_Happy Wintersun, Blade._

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and/or comments are appreciated! I'm also on [tumblr!](https://elmshore.tumblr.com/) so don't hesitate to come and say hello!


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